


And so this is Christmas

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5564.html?thread=18395324#t18395324">this prompt</a>: "This Christmas, all Lestrade wants is some company, rather than just drowning himself in Scotch. At the very least, somebody to drink it with him would be nice, thanks. That's all he's asking. Really."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And so this is Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written in January 2011, after S1, before S2 - so it's canonically compliant with S1, but not with S2, unless you retcon a whole new explanation for Lestrade's marital status.
> 
> TW for mentions of OFC death off screen.

The doorbell rang. Lestrade jerked out of his reverie, cursing himself for getting maudlin already. Not even two large scotches gone, and he was already lost in the past.

\---

Lestrade was not a man given to false hope, or to a surfeit of optimism. There'd been a time, in his younger days, when his naturally chipper nature had not deserted him, when his smile was a cheeky grin, and when girls (and not a few guys) had looked at him with lust and admiration. Even joining the force hadn't dented his tendency to look around him find something worth smiling about, to see the opportunities life presented to him. He'd learnt to temper his exuberance, to not try to chat to the lagered-up hooligans about the missed penalties and the dismal back four, or to wink quite so openly at the cute girls at the riot. But the murders, and the rapes, and the suicides hadn't managed to completely kill off his view of life as Something Good, and worth celebrating. Right up until the day that Jenny died, along with the child - the daughter - that she'd been carrying. After that, Greg Lestrade's smile didn't charm the girls, or the guys, he no longer made his colleagues' jobs that bit more bearable just by his presence, and he stopped thinking about life as something worth celebrating.

The lines on his face started settling, and the laughter lines he'd started in his youth were joined by lines of stress and worry. His hair started greying, then greying a lot more. The long hours took their toll, even as they brought him the promotions he didn't seek. The scotch and the ciggies made his voice husky, and he developed just the start of a soft belly.

He tried to ignore these signs, he thought he didn't care. He certainly didn't notice that common consensus judged that he'd matured from pretty boy to hot-as-hell man. What he did notice were the presents that he didn't buy each Christmas; the toys his daughter would never covet, the jewellery and perfume he'd never buy for his wife. He noticed every Christmas Eve that he didn't spend constructing rocking horses or dolls houses or trying to wrap a bicycle. He noticed every Christmas that he worked and didn't look forward to coming home to a proper Christmas meal with a growing family. He noticed... he noticed every damn Christmas.

This Christmas, like many before, he'd volunteered to be on call, to let the people with kids and partners have their day uninterrupted. In recent years his boss had declared that being on-call at Christmas was no longer all or nothing, and whoever caught Christmas Eve was going to be free after 6pm Christmas day. Enough time for those with kids to open presents in the morning, have a family meal, and take over in the evening. This year Lestrade had told Dimmock to have good day with his partner and kids, and had spent 36 hours resolutely sober, watching "family" films on the telly, and most definitely not counting down the hours till he could open the scotch and lose himself for the remainder of another bloody Christmas.

\--

The doorbell rang again. He checked his watch. Nearly 7pm. He couldn't think who would be visiting at this time. He'd seen his sister yesterday, she was at her in-law’s now, and anyway, she'd call if there was a problem. So would everybody else. He picked up the entryphone. Waited.

"Uh, it's John"

"John?"

"Oh, Lestrade, thank god, for a minute there I thought I'd got the wrong place. Or you were out."

"John?"

"Uh, John Watson"

Lestrade could hear the discomfort seeping into the other man's voice.

"John, hi. Sorry. Wasn't expecting visitors. Come in". Lestrade buzzed him in, opened the front door, waited for John to come up to the first floor.

"Hi. Sorry, I, uh, I wasn't expecting to see anyone today." Lestrade welcomed John into the flat, noticed the small carrier bag. John smiled uncertainly.

"Sorry, I can..." he gestured back over his shoulder, "...if it's not convenient?"

"It's fine, come in. Is everything OK? Sherlock...?" John liked this about Lestrade; even off duty, the man didn't quite stop being a copper, making sure the civilians were OK before anything else. It was an attitude John could respect (he did the same himself), although he felt distinctly ambivalent about being classified as a "civilian" now.

"Yeah, everything's OK, everyone's OK. Well, Sherlock is being slowly tortured into insanity by his family" (he noticed Lestrade fleeting smile at that), and I..." John paused, trying to think how to put into words how he'd felt alone in the flat all day, staring at nothing, receiving a stream of increasingly desperate texts from Sherlock. Eventually he'd texted back "come home, then", after which the only text he received was from Mycroft, "We respect the tradition of a family Christmas in this house, Dr Watson. My brother will not be leaving early. No matter how much he sulks. MH".

"And you..?" Lestrade was already in the living room with another glass, raising the bottle of scotch in a silent offer.

John nodded, and tried to continue. "I was... I've never... this is my first Christmas, well, uh," he cleared his throat, took a breath. "My first Christmas alone," he finally managed, hoping he didn't sound as pathetic to Lestrade as he sounded to himself. "I, uh," he lifted the bag, "I bought Indian?". The joy of living in London, thought Lestrade, is that there's _always_ a takeway open somewhere. He handed John a glass of scotch, gave a self-deprecating twist of the mouth.

"Blended. I've got malt around here somewhere, if you'd...?"

"Blended is fine". John sipped gratefully, handing over the food. He pulled a dvd case out of his jacket. "I brought Die Hard, too."

At midnight, Lestrade decided to call it a night. He felt good. He was full of surprisingly good food, pleasantly buzzed from the whisky - perhaps a little more than buzzed - and had talked about Jenny for the first time in years. He hadn't cried, not even with the alcohol on board, which was a first. He talked quietly, thoughtfully, describing how they'd met, how they planned to get married but had been in no hurry, how the pregnancy had been unplanned but not unwanted, how they'd talked about the future as if they had the rest of their lives together. John had talked about his family, and how family Christmases had become increasingly fraught as both his father's and Harry's drinking had taken hold, how he missed Clara more than he missed Harry, how he missed the Army even more. He spoke of communal Christmases in far flung war zones; how the Norwegians had the best Christmas dinner, and the Americans had the best bar, but that everyone knew what really mattered was that the British always won the football. They talked but didn't compete, shared their stories and experiences, talked less about Sherlock than they both expected, surprised each other by being able to recite dialogue along with the film. At one point Lestrade had asked John the one question that had been on his mind since the doctor arrived.

"Sherlock told you then?"

"Told me what?"

"About me, about... that I'd be alone, here. Tonight."

"Oh. Um, no. I... guessed."

"You guessed? I strike you as the sad old man man who spends Christmas alone? Christ."

"No. No, not at all. But... well, you wear a wedding ring, but you've never referred to anyone else in your life, and neither have any of your team, not even in passing. A couple of days ago Sally mentioned visiting family in Oxford, and you mentioned your sister was going to be there as well. And so I guessed. I mean," he continued because Lestrade was staring now, "I needed to get out of the flat, I needed... well, I hoped that you... I guessed you _might_ be around, I didn't assume..." John trailed off. Lestrade looked at him for a long moment, then smiled (a little sadly, thought John), and said, "Good guess. You want that last bhaji?"

Lestrade looked at John now, asleep at the end of the sofa, snuffling in a way that suggested he'd be snoring soon. He wondered just how desperate John had gotten before he decided to go out and seek the company he needed. How much better a solution that was than sitting alone obliterating the day with scotch and bad memories. He fetched the duvet from the spare room, draped it over John. Made his slightly stumbling way to bed thinking that this had been the best Christmas he had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in December 2010.


End file.
